alting the native one. Poor old Margery! she has a bad time of it with her General; and she sometimes quakes in her shoes lest he should ever hear of the part she took in denuding him of the authority which, had he exercised it, would unquestionably have added another massacre to the blood-stained annals of 1857.

Dr. O'Brien, you will be happy to hear, is in full enjoyment of health, and a property situated, as described by himself, in Oireland, a nate little pleece in the bogs;' where one day he very nearly mistook a Fenian for a snipe.

And now, my dears, farewell. You imposed a painful task on aunt Eleanor when you asked her to write out for you the story of little Coo-Coo; for as she writes there spring around her bitter memories of that terrible time which England can never forget, when the blood of strong men and tenderly-nurtured women, the babe of a week old and the child who played at his mother's knee, was mingled together in one great holocaust, in the name and for the glory of those hideous fetishes, those abominable MumboJumbos, which Brahmin and Mussulman alike call faith and religion.* And as the last words fall from my pen, there rises, as if by magic, before me a great cloud of familiar faces; some of them dearly loved, others deeply revered. One of them is a sweet girlish face, with the deep blue eyes and raven hair of the sister island. Ah, my little Norah, when I walked with you through the green Wicklow fields, when I sat with you on one of the old tombstones in your father's pretty churchyard, wondering when our turn would come to lie peacefully in God's Acre,' little did I think that the final resting-place for your young head would be, with other heads young and fair, and others old and gray, side by side in unhallowed sepulture in that awful Cawnpore well.

And another is a fair boyish face; a 'mother's boy,' with honest bright eyes and chestnut curls. The eyes were dim, and the curls dank enough, when they carried him from the Bailey Guard, with a bullet through his brave young heart.

And another still: a peaceful man's face; very noble, very calm, for he was one who feared not death. So may it have looked when they laid him down to rest in that spot near the Cashmere Gate; so will it look, but nobler far, when I see it again in the great hereafter. Never on earth-never on this earth again; for as I gaze I know that every face in that cloud is the face of a saint and martyr; and that if I ever see them again, if I ever be permitted to press in joyful welcome the hands which were last extended to me, in everlasting, sorrowful farewell, it must be in the better land, in the far-off mansions where all is 'perfect peace.'

A. S. B.

* Deen! Deen! (‘For our faith !') was the war-cry of the Mussulman portion of the rebel army.